Between the Lines
by onyourleftinheels
Summary: Fresh from saving New York City from Loki's attempted take over, Steve Rogers finds himself struggling to reconcile his past and present. What he doesn't expect is a mission that means the safety of his past as well as a civilian caught in the middle. TW: implied torture. (Post Avengers/Pre-Winter Soldier)
1. Chapter 1 - Emma

A/N: Steve Rogers and Captain America are the sole property of Marvel. I'm just playing with their toys for a little bit.

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><p>The air was crisp and cool, though it lacked that certain <em>something <em>that New England offered this time of year. Then again, New York City was far from holding the charm of New England, despite the proximity to the cluster of states. Still, it held coffee and enough pumpkin spice scented anything to make up for it, even with the familiar tugs of home-sickness at her gut. At least, that's what Emma continued to tell herself as she watched the passersby from within her favorite Starbucks. Her latte continued to unleash its steam and enticing aroma from within its paper confines, even as she continued to lavish her attention elsewhere.

She hadn't lived within the city limits for more than a few months, but it had already been eventful. In fact, many New York City natives had run with all of their possessions due to the most recent occurrences. Emma had almost joined them at first, too. However, when the smoke had cleared and she had dared to open her eyes, she counted herself among the lucky few that hadn't been too badly scarred by the almost invasion of New York City. Emma could remember standing in her darkened apartment, breathing hard as she walked towards the only window in her small apartment. At the time, she couldn't see much except for what she now thought may have been the Avengers. Regardless of what she thought she had seen, she found herself inspired to do something more than flee in the city's time of need as she watched a man in red and gold be lifted and supported by another man in red, white, and blue and a smaller figure swathed in black with red hair. She found herself moved to fight for her city in the way she knew she was capable, knowing they had fought for the citizens with their own lives on the line._  
><em>

Yes, Emma was a fighter, though really only in the figurative sense. With determination, she found herself calling out of work to help with the cleanup effort happening right at her doorstep. It was rough work, her body aching with the effort of sweeping away dust and debris. Yet, she found herself fulfilled in such a way that she hardly even cared when the phone call came, telling her she was no longer an employee of the esteemed Duane Reade on 6th avenue. A soft chuckle left her lips, her fingers reaching for the paper cup containing her latte as she remembered actually _thanking_ them for terminating her employment.

The sweet scent and flavor of baking spices played over her tongue as she gazed out the window on this crisp, autumn evening. Had it not been for witnessing the events with her own eyes, Emma hardly would have believed the city now standing tall had been in shambles only a month ago. Who knew a flying, metal whale thing would cause so many problems...

...or you know, exist in the first place.

Emma cleared her throat softly, her latte making a soft clicking sound as it landed back on the table. The volunteer work had come naturally to her when her new home needed it most. However, she didn't expect the volunteer work to come naturally to those that had put an end to the fighting too. Well, maybe not _all _ of them. At least, not all of them seemed to take to the physical labor.

She had tried to be discrete at first, casting sly glances from the corner of her gaze. Yet, each glance caused him to pause and so she'd go back to her work with a soft flush as the only evidence that she had watched him. She had tried this for the first two days of their work, and each time, he would counter with a pause. It was never much. Hell, it was hardly even noticeable. Regardless, it seemed to give the desired effect as the tall, sandy-haired man seemed content to go back to his tasks once Emma returned to hers. No one else seemed to have noticed, or if they did, they didn't mention it. Instead, Emma turned her focus back to working to clear the debris. However, to this day even weeks later, she couldn't shake the feeling that the man who had helped was Captain America without the blue jumpsuit.

A soft sigh left her as she ripped her gaze away from the crowds moving outside, letting her cheery memory fade away with the movement. Although Emma worked in and frequented Manhattan for most of the day, she had found a home in a small little apartment in Brooklyn. She loved the hustle of New York and all the activity it had to offer at practically any time of day. However, she also loved the respite that her slightly out-of-the-way apartment had to offer. You would never guess it by the dingy, dark hue of the bricks stained with the weather, but her place felt warm and inviting. At least, it did once you actually stepped inside.

Emma shifted in her seat, turning to grab her brown leather jacket from the back of the chair. She stood and began to slide the garment on in one fluid motion, scanning the small crowd of people who had glanced up with her sudden movement. Emma's fingers worked the button closures quickly, securing her jacket into place before she slid her hands behind her neck to tug her brown tresses free. A soft wind blew in response, tugging her hair in many directions as she reached for her latte.

She had almost forgotten about the journal she had found beneath the floor boards of her room - her own personal time machine to a past life from Brooklyn. It had cropped up during her deep cleaning effort over the weekend. Emma had scrubbed and scrubbed at a particularly dingy spot on the floor before it had simply given way beneath her hand. Her boots clicked against the sidewalk as she recalled the dust covering the small shoe box she had found. Her hand raised, hailing a taxi as she mentally opened the box, revealing a few paper airplanes made from stock card, a plain colored Jacob's ladder, and finally, a small book labeled "JOURNAL" in silver stamping. She had been in awe of her discovery, believing she had stumbled upon some child's secret treasures. However, after a brief perusal of the journal, Emma came to realize that she had found what some might call a treasure box.

The metal of the cab door clicked shut, her gaze flicking to what she could see of the windshield as the taxi began to move. This ride should be a relatively short trip, especially considering the small smattering of traffic hardly buzzing throughout the city. Emma couldn't help but chuckle softly to herself, sipping at her latte as she wondered if many New York inhabitants began to favor the subway system after the whole alien invasion thing. She couldn't blame them. In fact, she didn't blame them. That first day back to work had been slow to the point of closing early. It wasn't that there weren't appointments booked at the new upscale salon. It was that the clients simply didn't want to risk their lives _going_ to said appointment.

Squeaking brakes cut through the otherwise still evening as the taxi came to a halt. Emma blinked, surprised to find herself in front of her apartment. Fishing into her small purse, Emma pulled out a crisp, twenty-dollar bill, leaning forward to pass it to the taxi driver before sliding out of the car. The door clicked shut as she began to walk forward, not at all surprised to hear the yellow Ford pull forward shortly there after.

It wasn't long before her key jangled in the lock as the heavy, dark door swung forward on its hinges. Emma stepped into her home, a soft smile on her lips as she inhaled deeply, taking her keys and shutting the door with a soft rush of air in the process. Her foot steps were sure, punctuated by short pauses as she removed her boots and dropped them carelessly to the floor. However, her mind was already lost, filling with the stories and what she imagined to be the voice of her nameless author buried within the pages of their old journal. A happy sigh left her lips as she stepped into her room, the remnants of the setting sun casting a warm glow to the space.

However, any happiness she felt was short-lived as the unmistakable _snick_ of a gun being primed for use. It was as she turned, grabbing for her key chain of pepper spray that Emma felt a sharp pain to the side of her head. Her world tilted on its side and her vision began to tunnel. The last thing Emma saw was a figure all in black, brandishing the gun she knew she had heard before her vision and hearing completely blacked out.


	2. Chapter 2 - Steve

A/N: Steve Rogers/Captain America and Nick Fury are the sole property of Marvel. I'm merely playing with their toys for a little while.

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><p>Captain Rogers threw another jab at the punching bag hanging in the air, watching as it swung from the force. A light sheen of sweat covered his entire body, causing his shirt and sweatpants to cling to him as he continued to move. He was hardly putting much of his energy into the blows, using this moment of training to keep himself moving. Truth be told, he wasn't entirely sure that he even really needed to keep up the exercises he did on a daily basis. By rights, the super serum coursing through him was probably more than enough to keep him at his peak. Still, Steve wasn't the type of man to sit down and do nothing.<p>

His fists continued to assault the sand filled bag in front of him, his jabs cautious as it continued to swing back and forth against his assault. Steve had always turned to the punching bag when he most needed a distraction. Well, at least he did after his transformation. Keeping his power under control, the pulled punches and movement required more mental energy than he often cared to admit. However, there was nothing like this sort of work out to keep his mind sharp for when he actually found himself in the midst of battle. It was odd and seemed completely counter-intuitive, and yet the super soldier swore by the technique.

The sound of his breathing filled his ears, deep inhalations that sounded no more than a man who may have been a little out of breath from a brisk walk. Yet, this was Captain Steve Rogers. This was what he had become and what it meant to be Captain America. It meant maintaining peak physical form in spite of assault, danger, laziness, and even in spite of himself.

He caught the bag with his wrapped left hand, holding it in place for a moment as his eyes glazed over in thought. Never once for a moment did he regret his decision. Never once did he regret what he had become. However, Steve often stopped to consider what might have happened if he had never been enlisted for the service...

...or selected for their experimental procedure.

Steve caught his breath in a matter of moments, his mind still fixating on his past. Not a day went by that he didn't think of how very different his life would have been if he hadn't made the choices he did. Not a day went by that he didn't realize the very real consequences that his choices had brought to his life, either. He wasn't a fool or an ingrate, though. He could not be more relieved that his strength and vitality were restored with the help of the serum. The faintest hint of a smile crossed his lips as he silently thanked God or whatever deity it be that had also given him a boost in height, too. Every physical change that had happened to his body was a blessing, especially now that he could defend himself and those he cared about without fear. Steve Rogers, however, was most grateful that he could simply _walk_ for longer than ten minutes without feeling winded, achy, or just generally defeated.

And yet, everything had come with a price. He had lost his anonymity, especially now that this new age seemed to have so much technology and such a need to share everything at anytime. He couldn't walk down the street without _someone _recognizing him, though they usually just smiled or offered a salute in gratitude. Still, it was a little unnerving to be so well-recognized. Notoriety and fame had not been something he had considered when he had been offered the serum.

Steve dropped his gaze and his hand as the weight of his heaviest losses once again settled deep into his chest. The guilt and utter despair felt crushing even in spite of his enhanced bone structure. He had lost his best friend and his best girl in the face of action. If he had known - if he had had any _inkling_ - that the price of his service would be even close to this heavy...

His right fist flew before he even knew what had happened, the punching bag ripping and flying into the wall behind it. Sand spilled onto the floor, the grains hitting the wood and creating a soothing white noise that hardly nicked the soldier's rage. Everyone and everything for which he had worked so hard had been lost to him in the blink of an eye. Bucky had been his best friend, supporting him and giving him a home even in the darkest days of his broken life while he was growing up. Bucky had meant solace, friendship, and stability in the face of anything that life could throw at him. And Peggy...

Steve's fist clenched at the mere thought of her name, the face flashing into his mind unbidden. She was strength, courage, and hope. Her tenacity and spunk had been attractive, but she was still a woman, too. She was delicate and beautiful, in a way that a lady of real class could only be. She had been his heart, even if they had never had a chance to have that first dance.

He let his rage fester as he crossed the room, carefully collecting the punching bag without letting any more of its contents fall to the floor. It was a small tear at best, something that could easily be mended and used again later. Steve traced the frayed edges of the hole, his attention drawn by the sound of thick boots as they entered his location. Even without seeing the figure from the side of his vision, he would have recognized the steps of Nick Fury almost anywhere.

"Captain," intoned the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D with an air of authority. Fury's hands remained clasped behind his back as he approached, observing the scene with mild interest. "We need your help."

Steve rose to his feet, grabbing the punching bag and throwing it over his shoulder as he turned to face the director. His voice was calm, despite the turmoil boiling beneath the surface, "With all due respect, sir. I'm entitled to the same time off as the rest of my team."

"With all due respect," began Fury, following the Captain with his one-eyed gaze as he moved to put his equipment back, "the rest of your team doesn't have the metabolism of a horse on steroids. They're hurting, Captain. Healing. And this mission is more personal than that."

Steve paused, turning his gaze to his hands as he started to unwind the binding. His heart was racing a mile a minute as he tried to reason how any mission could be personal. Unless...

"They've got a civilian, Rogers," Fury continued, taking a few steps closer to the super soldier as he spoke. His gaze softened ever so slightly as he continued, "She was lucky enough to move into the apartment you lived in before you enlisted. Let's just say she apparently found some of your secrets."

Steve's gaze snapped up in shock. His heart continued to pound as he stared at fury with blank features. A civilian had uncovered his secrets? But that was impossible. There was no way anyone could have uncovered anything that wasn't already public knowledge. "You and I both know I have no secrets, Director. The army saw to that as soon as the put me on the stage with the USO."

Fury took a step closer, an uncomfortably short distance between him and the operative he knew better as Captain America. He inhaled through his nose, eye flashing dangerously as he opened his mouth to speak, "I didn't mean about the serum, Captain. They're looking for weaknesses of the emotional persuasion... and frankly, none of us want to see it come to that."

If Steve thought his heart was racing before, it was damn near pounding now. His eyes gathered a somewhat fevered glaze as he looked directly at Nick Fury, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin slightly in the hopes of maintaining some dignity. "Did they... Are they after Peggy?"

A soft smile crossed the director's lips before he shook his head, "No, soldier. Peggy is safe."

Fury watched as relief washed over the leader of the Avengers. He had expected this kind of reaction from the soldier as soon as he had walked through the door. However, the fact that Steve Rogers could now look him in the eye and ask about the woman who continued to hold his heart was an enormous improvement. Fury could only hope it meant that Captain Steve Rogers was beginning to move on from his past.

"Then why am I the man for the job, Director?" Steve asked, working on the binding around his other hand as he spoke. His voice was steady and sure, despite the adrenaline rushing through him. His self-control was wearing thin.

"This one literally has your name on it, Rogers," Fury began, lifting his head a little as he readjusted his jacket. However, he continued to pull at his jacket, opening the front and fishing into the inner pocket. He continued to speak in sullen tones as the Captain watched his movements carefully, "The young woman they took may lose her life or unleash all of your secrets. Or both. We're really not all that sure. However, what we do know is that they want to take you down from within your own head. None of us want to see it come to that."

"From inside my head? What are you," Steve questioned, his words quickly coming to a halt as he watched Fury procure a moderately sized leather-bound book from within his jacket. He gazed at it for a moment, his posture tensing as he took in the sight of the silver word stamped across the front with a sense of recognition. "Is that...?"

"Yea," Fury responded softly, taking a step closer to place the man's journal in his hands before he took his small retreat. He listened for a moment, gaze trained downward as Nick Fury allowed the Captain a moment of privacy and dignity. However, the Director of SHIELD was caught off guard as he heard the sharp inhale from the man across from him.

"When do I leave?"

Fury couldn't help the small smile the flitted across his lips, choosing to turn on his heel and head towards the door of the gym with a confident swagger. He knew his Captain would pull through. He had yet to let him down. Fury paused at the door, tugging it open as it glided smoothly on its industrial hinge.

"Suit up, Cap. We're ready when you are."


	3. Chapter 3 - Dear Diary

**_July 4th, 1936_**

__I've been staring at this page for a good solid hour, but couldn't find any way to write... I think that's why I like drawing so much. It's easier to sketch what's on my mind than it is to write. At least, it is for me. It always has been. So let me start here...__

_Happy birthday to me. More importantly, happy eighteenth birthday to me. I guess this country legally considers me an adult now. I guess that means I can purchase those cigarettes now. Not that I'd want to do that. Smoke sets off my asthma. Learned that the hard way..._

_Anyway, I've been thinking a lot since I managed to graduate high school. It was a close call with all the sick days. I have never been more grateful for extra credit in my life. On a serious note, it's days like today that I can't help but wonder if my dad would've been proud of me. He was a hero. A_ real _war hero. And then there's me. His son. I can't even think about the words basic training without practically having an asthma attack. But, I mean, he's still my dad, right? I'd like to think he would be proud, and really, any father would be proud of their son if they made it through school, right? I know mom's proud. She hasn't stopped telling me exactly how proud she is. I just hope she's able to catch up on her sleep soon. She's always so tired lately. I wish I could do more so she could only have herself to think of. Maybe I'll stop at the corner market and make her dinner tomorrow night. She'd like that._

_So I've been thinking a lot about what I want to do with myself now that I'm out of school. Bucky's been talking a lot about trying to get himself into the army once he's done with school. I keep trying to tell him that he's got plenty of time to think about that, but really, it's just a good thing he hasn't turned eighteen yet. I'll keep trying to talk him out of it. Then again, if either of us could actually _be _a soldier, it'd be him. Let's hope he changes his mind in the next four years._

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><p>Throbbing pain. It was the first thing she noticed as she started to return to consciousness. The second was the acrid smell of metal and something sour that she couldn't quite place. She inhaled deeper through her nose, a soft groan peeling off the back of her throat as her head began to pound in response. There was only the smell around her and the steady pulse of her head. Somewhere, she knew she needed to move or, in the very least, she needed to roll from the awkward position holding her face against the ground. Her stomach began to coil tightly, seeking rebellion as she slowly pulled her eyes open and she finally realized that her vision was blurred.<p>

It was then that Emma realized she was truly in serious trouble. It was obvious enough that she was no longer in her home and she had absolutely no recollection of how she had gotten to where she was now. Her eyes fluttered, hand flailing out to the side to rest against a cold, slick wall as she tried to steady herself. She inhaled slowly, a shudder jilting the motion before it also caused her exhale to stutter. She couldn't tell if she was cold, afraid, or simply filled to the brim with adrenaline. In all likelihood, it was all three. Regardless, Emma found herself shivering, head throbbing with the dull rhythm of her heart as she once again forced herself to open her eyes.

The sight that greeted her was dismal, the air thick with a haze she couldn't identify. She blinked sluggishly, hand still poised against the wall to help her hold her crouch as she continued to survey her surroundings. Emma couldn't be certain if the walls containing her were painted gray or if it was the poor lighting. Either way, it did little to help the poor lighting of her room spread. She assumed that was the point.

Emma didn't dare move from her spot, her breathing coming in a bit more ragged now as she began to panic. Images began to filter through her mind, short zips of memory that were just as perplexing as having no way of knowing how she arrived at her current destination. She could remember pumpkin spice, a soft autumn breeze, and a taxi. She vaguely remembered the short journey from Manhattan to Brooklyn...

But even those memories were questionable.

Something metallic clicked to her left and behind causing a ripple of fear to slide down Emma's back. She turned her head slowly, watching as a gray washed door slide open on well-oiled hinges from the corner of her eye. Through the haze of the room, she watched as a tall, muscular man sauntered in, crossing his arms as he moved. There was an air of malice about him that boasted of his confidence in just this sort of situation. Still, Emma lifted her chin defiantly as she forced herself to slowly stand. The low chuckle that fell from her unknown adversary that followed only strengthened her resolve.

"Such bravado for such a little girl," chortled the man who had entered. His gaze narrowed, crow's-feet crinkling slightly as a soft, bemused laugh joined his words. He shifted closer, watching the brunette as she struggled to keep herself upright. "I thought you would have started crying by now."

Anger swelled up in Emma before she could do anything to subdue it, her voice rough as she retorted, "Did no one ever tell you that you talk too much?"

The sharp bark of laughter at her words, she had expected. However, the swift lunge and sudden hand gripping at her throat was not. She felt the air rush out of her, hard cement gripping at her back and scraping the thin fabric of her shirt as she was lifted from the ground. Her eyes flew wide, hands grasping wildly at the wrist that was holding her in place as she struggled to suck in a single breath. Her heart thudded against her rib cage as she could do nothing but listen to the man hoisting her up.

"My talking will be the least of your worries," he started, voice lowering to a venomous hiss as he tightened his hand and continued, "I will break you into submission. Force you to tell me all that you've uncovered. You _will_ give us information about the beloved Captain... and you will die with all of his secrets purged from your brain. I will see to it."

Emma tried to gasp, mouth opening and closing wildly as she was suddenly lifted higher and shoved hard against the wall. Her neck snapped backwards, stars exploding into her vision as his hand knocked her head backwards against the wall. Her face flushed a deep red as she stilled, the pain in her skull mixing with her oxygen deprivation to steal away her will to fight.

And just as quickly as he had grabbed and pinned her, Emma found herself dropping to her hands and knees. She sucked in a gasping breath, ignoring the way her hands and wrists shot angry lines of pain up her arms and into her shoulders. She ignored the way her vision dimmed and the way her harsh breaths cut into her consciousness like a fresh scalpel. Instead, she turned her focus to the solid boot as it connected with her side. The fire that erupted along her ribs caused her to cry out and tilt.

She blinked against her graying surroundings, watching as they began to turn black against her will. The last thing she remembered was the sound of the door clicking shut, the metallic clang that followed reminiscent of a padlock sliding into place, before she once again greeted unconsciousness as she would her best friend.

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><p><strong><em>July 8, 1936<em>**

_I don't know what to do. Mom has a fever. A bad one... and she can't stop coughing. I tried to make her laugh about it. I told her she sounded just like me when I tried to do anything more than walk. She cracked a smile, but that was it. And it didn't even really reach her eyes. She's hurting and I don't know what to do to make it better._

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><p><strong><em>July 10, 1936<em>**

_The last few days have been a blur. I didn't sleep. Well, I didn't sleep much. Mom's been getting worse and stopped eating. I mean, I know I'm not the greatest cook there ever was, but it's hard to mess up a soup. But that was yesterday, and today she's gotten worse._

_I had to take her to the hospital. I didn't have any other choice. She was coughing and coughing and kept saying she couldn't catch her breath. I've been in this damn waiting room for hours and it's like no one knows anything. They won't let me in to see her... and they won't tell me what's going on either. I'm hoping one of the nurses will be nice enough to let me call Bucky from her desk. He'll know what to do. He always does._

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><p><strong><em>July 10, 1936<em>**

_It might be the eleventh. I'm not really sure what time it is, but that's not the point. The point here is mom's really sick. She's got pneumonia. Doc said she probably just had a bad cold for a while, but she spent too much time trying to work instead of letting herself rest. They're treating her with penicillin, but the doctor said it isn't a sure thing. Then again, he didn't say it _wasn't_ a sure thing either._

_All I know is my head hurts. I'm exhausted and I want to go home. But I'm not going anywhere until mom comes with me._

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><p>[AN] So sorry for the delay. I'm a bit under the weather, which is making things a bit more difficult than normal. Thanks for sticking with me!


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